


The Lead Signer's Club

by CallYourGirlfriend



Category: Bandom, Decaydance, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Coming of Age, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie, Pre-Fever Era, Pre-Split, Pre-hiatus, Prequel, Protective Pete Wentz, Sickfic, sick brendon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-03-02 14:11:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13319823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallYourGirlfriend/pseuds/CallYourGirlfriend
Summary: Patrick’s not sure what to make of Brendon Urie.It amazes him that Pete so accurately managed to find someone with Patrick’s music and Pete’s charisma crammed into one tiny, hyperactive body. In fact, it annoys him a little to think that the one time Pete checks his Myspace messages, he comes back with the perfect little rock star.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "And there are people that will stand in your corner and convince you to stand up for another round no matter what" -- Pete Wentz

**PART ONE: BRENDON**

Patrick’s not sure what to make of Brendon Urie.

It amazes him that Pete so accurately managed to find someone with Patrick’s music and Pete’s charisma crammed into one tiny, hyperactive body. In fact, it annoys him a little to think that the one time Pete checks his Myspace messages, he comes back with the perfect little rock star. 

That’s all it takes for these bands nowadays, a few clicks and they’re on the radio. 

“You want it to be as hard as it was for us, Trick?” Pete asks him when they’re done listening to a rough cut of  _ A Fever You Can Sweat Out. _ The record has Pete Wentz all over it, from the song titles to the lyrics, but it’s also uniquely  _ not  _ Fall Out Boy. Patrick can’t quite put his finger on what makes them so different, but he knows it has something to do with Brendon Urie. 

“Rock will die if every band has to do what we did to cut a single,” Pete argues. 

Patrick doesn’t point out that it took them two and a half albums, a car crash and a suicide attempt to get  _ Dance, Dance  _ and  _ Sugar  _ anywhere near a top 40 station. It’s not like he expects Pete’s baby-band to do anything like  _ that _ . 

“I just…want to make sure they’re ready,” Patrick says gently. He’s learned when to rain on Pete’s parade and when to lightly sprinkle. “After all, they’re the first band on your record label. Whatever they do will be a reflection of you.”

Pete snorts a laugh then, but it’s bitter and makes Patrick’s stomach hurt a little. “Whatever I do will be a reflection of them too, Trick. You know what it’s like to know me.”

And the sad thing is, Patrick does know. Patrick’s lived as Pete Wentz’s shadow for so long sometimes he feels like signing his name PeteandPatrick—Pete first—simply because when the fingers start pointing at Pete, it’s never too long before they find Patrick, too. 

“That’s all the more reason to be careful,” Patrick says. “You and I work because we’re youandme. I wouldn’t trust us to just anyone.”

“Mhmm….It’s not just anyone else though, Trick,” Pete reasons, pressing play on the CD again. 

Brendon Urie’s voice fills the backseat of Pete’s mom’s car—the perfecting listening spot according to Pete. Patrick watches Pete’s face as he listens, the way he loses the fake smiles and frustrated pouts and worried frowns. It’s something no drug or drink or fuck can ever bring out in Pete, and Patrick tries not to think it’s the same face Pete makes when Patrick sings. Patrick likes to think that’s for him alone. 

“He’s a good singer,” Patrick says in the lull between tracks. 

Pete opens one heavily-lined eye and smiles. “Takes one to know one.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick's got no interest in this hero shit. That's Pete's thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Everyone you idolize wakes up scared to be themselves sometimes." -- Pete Wentz

Patrick mostly forgets about Brendon Urie after that. He’s too busy being the lead singer of his  _ own _ band. Plus, Pete’s taken to updating the band on all things Decaydance, which is really just a Panic! play-by-play at this point. It’s a lot of RyanRyanRyan, but sometimes Patrick hears something about Brendon. 

“Brendon told Spencer who told Ryan,” Pete is saying as they pack instruments for the Nintendo Fusion Tour. Rather, Patrick’s packing and Pete is ‘supervising’ while sending texts and drinking iced coffee. 

“Who then told you…,” Patrick prompts, looking for the Telecaster Dove. He could have sworn Joe left it here. Or did Patrick ‘borrow’ it for that one-off radio show—

“I had to drag it out it of him,” Pete says, tap, tap, tapping away as his phone. “You know, to see if I was going to have to get anybody emancipated like I almost had to do with you.”

“Wait? How old is Brendon?” Patrick asks, giving up on the Telecaster and starting on Pete’s basses.

“He just turned 18 in April, but Spencer’s not 18 ‘till September,” Pete says, and does this weird little mad dash for the outlet across the room, just managing to plug his phone in before it dies. “Thankfully Spence’s parents are chill. Ry’s dad’s a mess—you’ve heard  _ Camisado _ —and Brent, well, I think he was hatched, and of course there’s Brendon’s parents….”

“They don’t want their son to be a rock star?” Patrick asks, stealing Pete’s coffee. If he’s going to do Pete’s work, he’s going to make him suffer a little for it. “You can sell rock stardom to anyone. My mom was convinced I was going to be Jagger when you were done with her.”  

“Your dad’s a singer and your mom loves you,” Pete says like it was that simple for Patrick to get his parent’s approval. It wasn’t, not at all, but whatever. “Bren’s parents…they’re…weird. I mean they’re Mormon for starters, and Brendon’s  _ totally _ not Mormon. Kid could give Joe a run for his money when it comes to pot.”

“That’s bad for your voice,” Patrick points out smugly. “He shouldn’t smoke.”

“You’re just bitter because you get paranoid when you’re high,” Pete says, and barrels back into his story before Patrick can drag him kicking and screaming down that rabbit hole. “So anyway, they thought Bren was going to do the whole go feed kids in Africa and marry some virgin thing, but I think Brendon would rather spontaneously combust than go on a mission.” 

“Did he tell them that?” Patrick asks, because he told his mom who he was. In its own unique way, it’d been as bad as the day his dad left, if not worse. “He owes them that.”

“Oh he knows that,” Pete snorts, firing off a quick text as he steals his coffee back from Patrick. “Kid dumped it all on them at once—the band, the drugs, the atheism, the fucking make-up and jeans…”

_ “Shit.” _

“Yeah,” Pete nods. “Spencer just sent me this text telling me to send anything meant for Brendon to his house, like I’m not already doing that for Ryan….” 

Patrick thinks he missed something, or maybe Pete forgot to mention an important part, so he quickly translates from Pete to English and concludes. “Brendon’s parents kicked him out?”

“Didn’t I say that?” Pete asks, putting his phone down.

“No.”

Pete looks at Patrick then, eyes a little sad like they always get when he’s remembering Boot Camp. “I just…I remember when my mom and dad…when they just like,  _ ditched me. _ ”

Patrick leans against an amp and says a familiar phrase: “They’re not all you. You can’t save everybody.” 

Pete practically mouths the words as Patrick says them. This is  _ that _ familiar. “I can try though, can’t I?”

“It worked with me,” Patrick shrugs, starting to coil cables.

“Exactly,” Pete enthuses, plopping down on the floor to keep his charging phone company. “That’s why I went to Vegas in like…mid-April? Bren got an apartment and I co-signed.”

Patrick remembers that. Pete’s therapist had called him and asked if Pete had mentioned this flight to Vegas, worried it was the beginning of one of Pete’s manic episodes when he did just what-the-fuck-ever he wanted to do without thinking about it. Patrick had thought so too and stopped talking to Pete for six days, 12 hours and 23 minutes until Pete let him have the chorus he wanted in  _ Dance, Dance.  _

“Why didn’t you tell me that’s what you were doing?” Patrick snaps, pissed. 

Pete shrugs, pulling his sunglasses over his eyes. “B told me not to.”

“Since when do you listen to some kid about what you tell your best friend?” Patrick damn-near shouts.

Pete cocks his head to one side, confused. He’s used to Patrick’s rage, but always over music. Not over friendship. “You know how Ryan looks up to me?” Pete asks. 

“I’ve seen him licking your boots a few times,” Patrick spits. 

Behind his blackout lenses, Patrick knows Pete is rolling his eyes at the emergence of Pissy Patrick. 

“Well Brendon?” Pete says, sliding his phone open and closed. “He looks up to you.”

Once Patrick adds in the other words Pete left out for sheer sake of being Pete, he gets it and instantly feels like a dick. The embarrassment and shame sticks in his throat, makes it tight. “You wouldn’t happen to have his number, do you?” 

“Of course” Pete says, slurping the dregs of his watery coffee. “Got it right here.”

Patrick sighs at the way Pete’s waving his phone through the air like this was his plan all along. It probably was. People don’t give Pete enough credit when it comes to being devious for the right reasons. “Well are you going to fucking give it to me?”

“Are you asking?” Pete smiles, really milking this manipulative asshole shit. 

“Don’t make me change my mind,” Patrick threatens, but no sooner has he said the words then his own phone vibrates in his pocket. 

“You should check your text messages…” Pete declares. 

Patrick rolls his eyes. “You’re a dick.”

Pete smiles, biting on the straw of his coffee. “Takes one to know one….”

Patrick throws a pick at him, fantasizing it’s an amp.   


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Pete Wentz gossip express has pulled in to Patrick's station

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And I may not be loved, but they always recall my name." -- Cobra Starship

Patrick’s phone becomes an albatross around his neck, Brendon’s number sitting inside un-dialed and daunting. Patrick keeps meaning to give the kid a call, because Patrick  _ likes _ Brendon. He really does. It’s just sometimes managing his own shit (and Pete’s) was enough for him (too much.) So when rumors about  _ Maryland _ start cycling through the Pete Wentz Gossip Express, Patrick is more than a little overwhelmed. 

“And then Spence writes, hold on where it is…fuck all these emails from the label,” Pete grouses, scrolling through his sidekick as they walk side by side down Rodeo Drive. 

Pete’s been recognized three times, and despite what he said about buying new clothes for tour, Patrick thinks that was the whole point of this excursion—

“Fuck, found it!” Pete exclaims. “Okay, so Spencer writes ‘Brent sucks on bass (like I would be better and I can’t read music) so Brendon’s recording bass now. That pissed off Ryan for what-fucking-ever reason and he picked a fight with Bden over whose turn it was to empty the recycling or buy toothpaste or lock the front door—who knows with those two—that morphed and became a fight over whose chorus was better. That lasted three days, two shouting matches and one attempt by Brendon to quit the band. Then Squire showed up and yelled at all of us in that weird producer voice of his and B and R wrote what we think is going to be our first single if Bden can teach himself cello—”

“Cello?” Patrick asks.

“Honestly, that’s your question?” Pete demands as they dodge bleach blonde Barbies weaving their way through the hot sun. Patrick pulls his hat down lower over his forehead while Pete just smiles at the world. “Of all the fucked up in that story, you care about the cello?”

“I care about the music,” Patrick says. “I always do.”

“Hmmm,” Pete hums. “Anyway, it continues with ‘…Ryan just lit a guitar on fire, Brent’s useless and Brendon’s locked himself in the bathroom. Is it too late for me to go to college?’….”

Patrick turns to look at Pete. “Was that the end?”

Pete rolls his eyes as they stop at the light. “You’re so goddamned smart aren’t you, Trick?”

“Smarter than you.”

Pete slings an arm around Patrick’s neck as they cross. “That just might be true,” he says. “Which is why I want you with me at Panic!’s first label meeting.”

Patrick ducks under Pete’s arm, already sweaty without Pete the Heater making it worse. But making things worse seems to be Pete’s specialty if he wants  _ Patrick  _ at the first Decaydance/Fueled By Ramen meeting. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Pete. You’re the label guy. I just come in when we have to play a demo.”

Pete stops in front of a hat store, and Patrick knows he’s about to butter him up with all the trucker hats Patrick could possibly want to hide behind. “Look, Trick. One day you might have a solo album and need to work with a label—”

“As if,” Patrick hears himself scoff as Pete leads him into the store. 

“I’m just saying…I can give you a crash course in label bullshit at the same time I give it to Panic!” Pete explains, holding up a blue trucker hat against Patrick’s eyes. “Plus, I’m sure the boys will like having a friendly face on their side of the table. We can do a little good cop/bad cop.”

The shop workers recognize Pete then, and he uses it to his advantage, handing a kid in Dickies and skinnies the blue trucker hat. Patrick plays around with the fedoras, wondering if that could be his thing this album cycle. 

“I don’t know Pete,” Patrick repeats, trying on a black fedora. He doesn’t mind the look at all, but he can imagine the Internet comments already and it makes him hesitate. Every decision Patrick makes is filtered through the YouTube comment section first. “We just signed with Island. I don’t want FBR to think that we’re trying to use our major label to bully them with your protégés.”

“But that _is_ what we’re doing. Or at least what I’m doing,” Pete says, coming up behind Patrick and tilting the black fedora back on his head a bit so it leaves his bangs sticking out in the front. It’s how Pete would wear the fedora. “Patrick, I hear you sing, I hear the melodies you write, and I know with talent like that we shouldn’t ever have to hear the word no.”

Patrick takes the fedora off, handing it to the salesman practically salivating at this private Fall Out Boy conversation. He’s sure it’ll be all over the chat rooms before Patrick can even pay. “Do I have to talk?” Patrick sighs.

Pete smiles at him in the mirror, that charming thing that makes the fan girls faint in the front row. “Not unless you have something to say. I just need someone there to keep things cool.”

Patrick thinks Andy would be a better choice for that, but he knows the power of PeteandPatrick. The proof is in the paparazzi trying to snap their photos through the glass storefront. Pete spots them and fixes a smile on his face as he guides Patrick to the cashier. 

“Will this be all?” the cashier asks, blatantly staring. 

“Yes,” Pete says, snatching the three hats in Patrick’s hands. 

“Pete—”

“Will you be at the meeting?” Pete demands, handing over his black Amex before Patrick can answer. 

Patrick feels put upon, and wants to say that his loyalty can’t be bought. But he knows that’s only because it wasn’t for sale to begin with. Pete’s always just had it free of charge. “What day is it?”

Pete signs the receipt with an excited flourish and hands Patrick his bags. “I’ll have my people call your people.” 

Patrick just rolls his eyes. Doesn’t Pete know he’s Patrick’s people?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick's a good guy. That doesn't mean he's not good at being the bad guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Prettier and younger but not any better off" -- Fall Out Boy

Though Pete might be Patrick’s people and Patrick knows he’s Pete’s people, there are still a lot of other people orbiting around Pete Wentz like so many electrons would a nuclear center.

There’s the A&R guy who’s in Patrick’s phone as ‘A&R Guy,’ there’s the publicist, the PR girl and their digital strategist whose numbers Patrick has written down under the header ‘Press Punks,’ and then of course there’s Avron and Squire and Walker and Sinclair and O’Keefe who go in as Last Name, Producer. There’s McLynn and Olech who he’s got in there as Babysitter I and Babysitter II. They’re the best manager and tour manager respectively that Patrick’s ever had, and he’s fired a few because Pete hates when others hate him; Patrick’s used to it.

Then, of course, there’s literally every human Fall Out Boy has ever met between Chicago and LA. Their names Patrick never remembers, but when Patrick overhears a particularly dangerous rumor at some LA party more coke than fun, he breaks a rule and ditches Pete with some B-lister to call everyone in his contact book who could confirm what Patrick knows is true.

He stands outside the club, fanning cigarette and pot smoke away from his face as he hangs up on voicemails and sends texts he doesn’t expect to be answered. It might be 1 a.m. in LA, but the people he hangs out with keep rocker hours, not banker hours, and for Patrick everyone’s phone should be open until at least 3 a.m. He’s courteous enough not to call anyone with kids at this time of night, but he’s desperate so he tries O’Keefe one more time.

_“This better be life or death…”_

Patrick doesn’t really think he means that considering the last time Patrick called him this late at night he’d been convinced Pete might actually die. “Everyone’s alright,” Patrick assures.

_“Good, then leave me the fuck—”_

“Is it true?” Patrick demands before he can hang up. Someone outside smoking recognizes him and Patrick awkwardly tucks the phone between his shoulder and ear to sign the guy’s Marlboro pack. “Sean, fuck, is it true?”

The guy offers Patrick a cigarette for his trouble, and Patrick—for all his straight-edge glory—goes for it. He lights it and puffs aimlessly for a few minutes. He doesn’t get the appeal, but it does give him the edge he needs for this conversation.

“I want to hear you say it,” Patrick demands then, squeezing the phone tightly. He can hear his old producer breathing down the line and Patrick knows, he just knows. “Don’t make me call Squire and tell him what you’ve done.”

There’s rustling on the other end, like sheets being thrown back and a woman’s voice complaining. Patrick stubs out the guilt of intruding like he does the cigarette. Goddamned useless.

_“Look Patrick, I don’t care if you call Squire. It was his idea. I only facilitated it.”_

Patrick feels just as betrayed as he did when O’Keefe and Squire did this to him. They’d even got Neal Avron in on it, which isn’t fair because Avron is Patrick’s favorite producer. “How could you?”

O’Keefe sighs like this entire conversation is trite. _“How could I not? Have you heard him sing—”_

“Of course I have,” Patrick veritably explodes. “Who do you think told Pete there was potential there?”

The line beeps a few times and Patrick must have surprised O’Keefe if he’s got him hitting random keys by accident. _“Then you must know he deserves the opportunity. Same way you did.”_

Patrick is quiet then, his rage a budding ulcer in his stomach. O’Keefe is far from wrong, and he really does have Brendon’s best interests at heart, just like he did Patrick. “It’s just,” Patrick sighs. “It’s just he’s so young—”

_“And you’re suddenly so old?”_ O’Keefe questions gently, used to jaded rock stars gone gray and cynical before their time. _“Patrick, it’s not a sure thing, okay? He can say no. There’s really no way for him to lose no matter what decision he makes.”_

Patrick grits his teeth because that bullshit about there being no wrong answer was the same cut line they’d fed him. It was hard to swallow then and it burns now. He says, “Let me at least warn him….”

O’Keefe yawns into the phone. _“Whatever you want, kid. You’ve got two days.”_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sure Patrick doesn’t look the part of the rock star, but Brendon always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Music is a healer." - Brendon Urie

Patrick sits in his rental Mazda3 outside a sketchy apartment building just off Fourth and Fremont Streets in the shadow of Sin City. The parched front lawn is decorated with bleached flamingos. Two strands of burned out Christmas lights wrap around the dingy columns bracketing the crumbling walkway. It’s a little after 10 p.m. and Patrick wonders if he should just check into his hotel and come back tomorrow morning, but he knows he’ll be too late. He only had two days after all. 

He’d corralled a Beyond-Redemption-Wasted Pete into giving him Brendon’s address. Pete had been too far gone to ask why, had simply made some calls to whoever manages his life and gotten the information. Exactly 24 hours later Patrick found himself wondering if Drunk Pete hadn’t gotten it wrong. This place looks more halfway house than home to the lead singer of one of the most talked about bands yet to put out an album. Patrick flips open his phone then, dialing Brendon’s number. It goes straight to voicemail and Patrick doesn’t leave a message this time. He’s pretty sure 3 is enough, and he’s already left 5. He’s debating the merits of sneaking in behind one of the other tenants stumbling home at this hour, when a city bus pulls up alongside his car. 

Three people get off, an old woman with blue hair and a twitchy guy most likely to sell drugs to high schoolers. A smaller guy follows the two of them, headphones in and hat on backwards. He’s got on those Target brand khakis and a lime green uniform shirt. Patrick can just make out some kind of fruit logo on it. It’s not until the kid steps under a flickering street lamp that Patrick recognizes him. 

“Brendon!” he yells, hopping out of the car. 

Brendon startles, tensing like he’s ready to run for it. Patrick holds up his hands and stands still, letting the light from a passing car reveal his face. 

“Patrick?” Brendon asks, and Patrick can hear the ‘what the fuck’ on the tip of the kid’s tongue. But he’s still too polite around Patrick to actually say it. “What are you doing here?” he asks instead.

“Pete gave me your address,” Patrick explains.

Brendon nods like that’s obvious and Patrick realizes there probably aren’t many people who know where Brendon’s currently living. Patrick certainly wouldn’t advertise it if he were Brendon. “Is there…did something…is Pete alright?”

Patrick stifles an irritated sigh. He’s sick of scaring people like this. “Pete’s fine. I didn’t mean to imply—”

Brendon waves him off. “I don’t get a lot of visitors, let alone you, so I just assumed….”

“Of course,” Patrick says lamely. “I tried calling you.”

“My phone’s off.”

“Oh,” Patrick says. They stand awkwardly, the only sound coming from Brendon’s attempt to stifle a cough and Patrick’s heart thundering in his ears. “Could I, uh, could I come up?” 

Brendon hesitates, hiking his backpack up. “I…the place is a mess.”

Patrick smiles softly. “I live with Pete Wentz, you can’t shock me.”

Brendon gives him a look like ‘challenge accepted,’ but motions for Patrick to follow him.     

The closer they get to the dilapidated building, the stronger the scent of cheap pot. Patrick cringes on behalf of Joe, knowing his friend would hate the crimes against marijuana being committed inside Brendon’s complex. Brendon pulls out a keyring to make a janitor jealous and begins unbolting the three padlocks on the front door. 

“At least you’ve got security,” Patrick attempts to joke. It falls flat, swallowed by the sounds of infomercials blaring, a couple fighting, a baby crying. Someone’s cooking. Someone’s crying.  

“I’m on the eighth floor, and no, there’s not an elevator,” Brendon announces, making a beeline for the stairs. Patrick swallows a sigh and follows, reaching for the handrail to hoist himself up Brendon’s impossible walkup. Brendon grabs his wrist. “I wouldn’t touch that,” he says. 

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Patrick replies, unable to meet Brendon’s eyes. The kid’s hand is clammy yet warm, and even in the piss-yellow entryway light, his skin is pale with dark circles like black eyes. “Lead the way.”

Brendon starts climbing, taking the stairs without any of the manic energy Patrick’s come to expect from him. The fidgety kid with the jiggling knee and tapping foot and mile-a-minute commentary isn’t gone so much as severely muted, subdued. He thinks of what he has to tell Brendon, of the decision the kid will have to make, and debates waiting until he’s got Brendon full steam again. He’s so caught up debating the pros and cons, going back and forth, back and forth, yes and no, yes and no that he rams right into Brendon when the he stops short on the fourth landing. 

“Sorry,” Brendon wheezes, hands on his knees. Under his pallor, he’s gone red and splotchy, and his breath rattles in his chest like water down a clogged drain. 

“Are you alright,” Patrick asks cautiously. Honestly, he’d thought he’d be the one shitting out on their impromptu hike. “Do you want to sit down?”

Brendon shakes his head slowly, like he’s dizzy, and coughs a few times. Despite the wet rattle in his chest, his cough is dry and irritated. The kind of sound Patrick’s learned to fear from so many sore throats and hoarse shows. 

“I’m alright,” Brendon says, removing his hat to wipe sweat from his forehead. “Just picked something up in Maryland and haven’t quite gotten over it.”

Patrick wants to point out that Maryland and recording was over 6 weeks ago. It’s both too long since recording and too close to tour for Brendon to be sick. Patrick knows Brendon blew his voice recording the album, the same thing had happened to Patrick. But he’d gone home to his mom and her couch and her endless cups of throat coat and he’d been fine when Fall Out Boy piled in the van.

Brendon coughs again, quick and clear, before slowly starting to straighten up. 

“Are you…do you…?” Patrick doesn’t have a clue what he’s saying. Sick people were Andy’s job.  

“I’m good. Embarrassed I can’t make it up my own stairs, sure, but the big hole in my ego isn’t life threatening,” Brendon tries to joke. He digs in his pocket for something and comes up with two mentholated store brand cough drops. 

“Those are bad for your voice,” Patrick warns, plucking them out of Brendon’s shaking hand. “Menthol dries out your vocal chords.”

Brendon looks frustrated in the lowlight, one hand cradling his throat. “But they’re the only thing that helps—”

“Find something else.”

Brendon’s face immediately goes blank, whatever he’s feeling buried deep behind a mask of indifference and obedience. It freaks Patrick out, and he wonders if it wasn’t this very face that allowed Brendon to keep up the ruse of being a good Mormon boy long after he’d learned to sin. 

“Right,” Brendon says, and his voice cracks painfully. 

Patrick can’t conceal his wince this time, and he feels bad when Brendon blushes and attempts to hurry up the stairs. Patrick hovers behind him like he might collapse. The kid’s wheezing worse than Patrick in the middle of an asthma attack, and Patrick can see his shoulders stutter as he stifles a cough. He loses the fight just as he keys open his door, stumbling over the threshold in the middle of a coughing fit. 

Patrick hastily closes the door behind him as Brendon fumbles his backpack off, staggering into the kitchen to turn on the single overhead light. He pulls a red solo cup out of his warped brown cabinets and attempts to fill it with water from the tap.

“Let me,” Patrick says, taking the cup from Brendon’s trembling hands. He hides his distaste for tap water and how chloride dried out your throat in deference to Brendon’s inability to stop coughing. “Here,” he says, handing Brendon the cup.

With iron will, Brendon stills his tremors and contains his cough long enough to take a sip. No sooner than Patrick sees him swallow, Brendon’s coughing again, spitting water out and spilling the cup all over Patrick. 

“Shit, I’m so sorry!” Brendon wheezes, one hand on his chest as he tries to offer Patrick a ratty dish towel. He still hasn’t stopped coughing. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to.”

Brendon stumbles towards him, rubbing the moldy dish towel against Patrick’s shirt. “Brendon, Brendon!” Patrick practically shouts. Brendon takes a startled step backwards, the dish towel held out before him like a shield. Patrick frowns, “I don’t care about the water. It’s not like I’m wearing Armani.”

Brendon looks at his shoes, removing his hat and running his hand through his hair. It’s so greasy his fingers carve a path in it like a field of wheat. “The other guys always say I’m clumsy,” Brendon mutters. “That I don’t pay attention to what I’m doing.”

Patrick thinks there’s a difference between being careless and coughing so hard you nearly puke, but he’s not concerned with the logistics as much as the accusation. “The other guys?” he asks. 

Brendon waves the dish towel through the air vaguely, “Ryan,” he says, and then after a beat, “The band too, sometimes. When I trip over the cables or hit the wrong keys on the piano.”

“It’s just nervous energy,” Patrick says, remembering Fall Out Boy’s early days clocking each other in the head with guitars and toppling Patrick’s mic and getting stabbed in the eye with drumsticks. “You just need to learn to control it.”

Brendon’s eyes turn black then, swirls of anger pooling in the bloodshot whites. “Did Ryan send you here? Did he tell you to say that?”

Patrick tracks back over what he said and while he’s pretty sure he came up with it all on his own, he’s less sure why Brendon would think Patrick did Ryan Ross’ dirty work. “Why would he tell me to say that?” 

“He wants me back on my Ritalin,” Brendon states. 

Patrick’s familiar enough with pills, thanks Pete, to fill in the blanks there. He’d found Brendon’s energy amusing, an asset to a good live show, but he can see how his Mormon parents or Myspace famous Ryan Ross might be a little intimidated by it. “Do you think that’s a good idea?” Patrick asks. 

Brendon huffs a laugh that becomes a cough, doubling over with his hands on his knees as he croaks, “It’s flattering almost, that he sends in the big guns to convince me to take those fucking pills. I thought he’d choose Pete. I knew better than to think he’d come himself.”  

Patrick’s more than bewildered and twice as confused as he’s ever been about Brendon, but he takes the kid’s arm all the same and tries to get him to sit down. “Brendon—”

“Don’t touch me,” Brendon rasps, pulling out of Patrick’s grip. “Don’t fucking pretend that you care about me when you’re just here to tell me something else I’m doing wrong!” 

Patrick flashes back to that moment on the stairs when he took Brendon’s cough drops, the way he went expressionless in the face of Patrick’s admonishment. “That’s not why I’m here—”  

“Then what is?” Brendon interrupts, and it’s low and gravelly with either anger or illness. 

Patrick had known the answer to that question sitting in his car, but now he’s not so sure. Between the mention of pills and the inter-band fighting, maybe Patrick should let some things crash and burn all on their own. He should walk away and leave all the Good Samaritan God Complex bullshit to Pete. 

But then he gets a good look at Brendon.

Sure Patrick doesn’t look the part of the rock star, but Brendon always did. Slightly too pretty yet still masculine, clear skin and eyes and shiny hair and pearly teeth. He’d been slim but muscular, and energetic like someone had put tension rods beneath his skin. Now the kid just looks like shit. Skinnier than Patrick remembers, skin sallow and eyes sunken. His lips are chapped and he’s too still. It’s like movement costs a lot and Brendon just can’t afford any extra. 

Patrick hates that he’s not the kind of guy who walks away from these kind of things. 

“Do you have a bathroom?” Patrick sighs wearily.  

Brendon seems thrown by the question, but jerks his head to the left. “It’s a shithole, but it has the basics,” he says defiantly.

Patrick ignores him, thinks of the patience his mother used to show him when he was sick and bitchy. “Towels?” Patrick asks, and Brendon nods. “Hot water?” Brendon hesitates, does the ‘so, so’ gesture with his hand. “Enough for steam?”

“Yeah,” Brendon says, curious yet still defensive. 

Patrick takes him by the hand then and drags him into the bathroom. It’s the size of a closet, toilet literally bumping up against the shower and the tile crusted with suspicious looking black mold, but it will do. Patrick cranks the shower, cringing at the way the pipes grown and squeal. He sits Brendon down on the toilet seat and says, “Shirt off.”

Patrick can feel Brendon’s incredulous stare as he turns to the sink and puts the hot water on full blast. He lets the sink fill while Brendon slowly pulls his arms through the ugly green uniform shirt, tossing it carelessly to the floor. 

“Is this absolutely necessary?” Brendon asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m cold.”

“Please don’t bitch while I’m helping you,” Patrick asks nicely, because some people (Pete) don’t get it that complaining only makes it worse. “Where are those towels?”

“Behind the door.”

Patrick quickly dunks a ratty blue towel in the hot water gushing from the shower head. He squeezes it out, nearly scorching his own hands and directs Brendon to hold it over his head. “Like a tent,” he explains. 

Brendon gives him another incredulous look, but complies. “What are we doing this for?”

Patrick stops in his meticulous dunking of dirty towels in rapidly cooling water to just stare at Brendon. Patrick’s sweating in the shower’s damp heat, the steam making his hair slick and stringy, while Brendon shivers miserably beneath his towel, coughing every couple of minutes. 

“Why are we doing this?” Patrick demands. “You’re  _ sick _ , and you’re hoarse to the point of cracking. This is laryngitis or overuse or misuse or all three. You’re going to ruin your voice if you keep this up.”

Brendon looks up sharply at Patrick from beneath the dripping towel, fear and denial etched into his boyish face. “What? No! This is part of like, what I have to  _ do!  _ To get stronger.” 

Patrick is so taken aback by Brendon’s proclamation that he just stares at the teenager sitting half-naked in a bathroom so dirty it should be condemned. Brendon, to his credit, glares right back. But beneath that hard, angry petulance is confusion and concern and fear. So much fear. 

“Brendon,” Patrick breathes, turning the shower off. The water’s long since gone cold, the ten minutes of hot water afforded to Brendon having expired. Patrick takes the towel from over Brendon’s head, hands him a new, warm one and directs Brendon to wrap himself up in it. 

“Thanks,” Brendon mumbles, huddling into the towel. His khakis are half-soaked, his frame trembling. But he’s not coughing anymore and there’s a bit of color chased into his cheeks. Fever, or maybe not. “Am I…am I really going to lose my voice?”

Patrick leans against the sink and tries not to feel bad for scaring the kid, but to be fair, Patrick’s scared for him. “If you keep doing what you’re doing, absolutely,” Patrick says truthfully. “Coughing traumatizes the vocal chords, especially when it’s dry. You’ve got some kind of chest congestion going on and you look like shit, Brendon. If you don’t rest, you’re never going to make it through a tour.”

Brendon stares at Patrick’s sneakers, chewing on his bottom lip. “There’s no time,” he says, shaking his head at the impossible idea of stopping even for a minute. “I blew my voice recording, and then when we got back here we’re practicing every day and gigging whenever I’m not at the Hut—”

“The Hut?” Patrick asks. 

Brendon blinks. “The Smoothie Hut? Where I work. Did you think an apartment and practice space just pays for itself?”

“No, I know it doesn’t,” Patrick reasons. They’d used Joe’s attic free of charge to practice, but whatever. Patrick knows studio time is $24 an hour. Practice space is near that. “I just…didn’t know you were funding it.”

Brendon just looks at Patrick, “We have to practice,” he says, not mentioning whether the other guys are contributing to the fees. “Plus, it’s not so bad. If I sing during my shifts at the Hut then I can make some extra in tips.”

“You sing on shift?” Patrick says, an edge of disbelief in his voice.

Brendon shrugs. “Soccer moms like a little bit of Journey, a little bit of Queen. It’s like warming up for practice anyway.”

Patrick certainly doesn’t warm up with Queen, especially not if Fall Out Boy’s practicing  _ every day _ . Patrick doesn’t even speak the week before tour. “Brendon,” he says, exasperated. “You  _ can’t _ keep doing this. I know it seems like you don’t have any other option, but if you blow out your voice completely then there’s no tour, there’s no merch or ticket sales, and then there’s no Panic! Ryan gave up college for this, Spencer nearly gave up high school and you…you gave up your parents, your faith, your house—”

“I get it alright!” Brendon shouts.

“No you don’t Brendon!” Patrick returns just as loudly. “Because if you did you wouldn’t shit on all of Pete’s hard work tearing yourself apart for no goddamned reason!” 

Patrick just stands there as Brendon slowly starts to cry. It’s like watching a levee burst, everything that’s been held back for so long spilling over. He cries violently and completely silent, like he’s gotten used to sobbing without a single noise. Patrick heart, already battered and bruised, breaks a little more. 

“This band is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Brendon whispers, voice choked and tight. “Sure it’s not always great. It’s really, really fucking hard sometimes, but it’s my wildest dream, you know?”

Patrick does know. Oh does he know.

“I don’t want to do anything to fuck it up,” Brendon continues. “There just doesn’t seem to be a thing I  _ can’t _ fuck up. I can’t ever sing Ryan’s lyrics perfectly, and Brent can never play my bass lines and I keep trying to write better parts for Spencer, but Ryan doesn’t like them or I don’t hear it right…I just…I—”

“Welcome to being in a band, Brendon,” Patrick says evenly. He smiles to soften the blow because it’s not that he’s doesn’t sympathize with Brendon, he does. But this was exactly what he’d warned Pete about. Panic! went from 0 to 60 too quickly and Brendon’s cracking under the pressure. “Sometimes getting what you want is both a blessing and a curse.”

Brendon seems to get himself under control then, swallowing the last of his tears and jerking his face into that blank expression. “Did you come here to tell me to man up, Patrick?”

Patrick doesn’t think he deserves being attacked right now, and he’s sick of choking back his resentment. He’d have given anything to have someone looking out for him the way Pete and Patrick are looking out for Brendon. “The label wants to option you,” Patrick announces. 

Brendon just blinks at him. “What does that mean?”

Of course he doesn’t know. “Currently FBR has signed Panic!, meaning it owns the rights to any and all music produced under that band name, regardless of who is a member. I don’t know how the four of you have done the cut, but you’ll all be paid as members of Panic!. The label wants to separate you from the pack,” Patrick explains. “They want to sign you as an individual artist operating under the Panic! umbrella.”

“What does that mean,” Brendon repeats, and Patrick sighs. 

“That depends,” Patrick says. “If you let them option you, you’re not only locked into Panic!’s deal, but also whatever contract they draw up for you as a solo artist. It gives you the label’s loyalty if you ever want to do work outside of Panic!, as well as provides you with a platform to continue using Panic!’s name even if the other members are no longer a part of the band.”

“Wait…so if I let them option me then essentially I  _ become _ Panic!,” Brendon asks. “No matter what the others do, I have a record contract?”

Patrick nods. “There’s also some financial negotiations to work through. Most of them benefit you.”

Brendon’s eyes widen, the bloodshot irises blown wide open. “This sounds too good to be true.”

“It is,” Patrick affirms. “If you let FBR option you, they  _ own _ you. You’ve already given them Panic!, and this contract gives them Brendon Urie as well. You’re never representing yourself because that person only exists through the label’s lens. That’s not to mention what it’ll mean for Panic!”

Realization dawns on Brendon’s face then and he draws the towel closer around himself. “I take it Ryan, Spencer and Brent aren’t being optioned.”

“No,” Patrick confirms. “It’s typically only offered to the lead singer or frontman of any band.”

“Did you say yes?” Brendon asks.

“Excuse me?”

Brendon’s eyes narrow and he scoffs as if to remind Patrick he’s not stupid. “When they optioned you, did you say yes?”

Patrick shakes his head. “Pete’s the one who never turns off, not me. When I’m done with a show or an album or an interview, I want to be me. Plus, with Fall Out Boy, the band’s about who we are together, not who we’re becoming individually.”

Brendon seems to want to argue that point, especially given Pete’s penchant for capturing the media’s attention all by himself, but he lets it go. “Did you tell your band the label optioned you?”

“No,” Patrick says. “Mostly because Pete would have told me to go for it, Joe would have been mad because Fall Out Boy was his idea and because Andy never wanted to be anything but part of a team. There’s enough opportunities for us to become fractured without my actively making cracks.”

“Is this where I’m supposed to ask you what I should do?” Brendon asks then, defensive again. 

Patrick shakes his head, drying his hands on his jeans. “You can do whatever the fuck you want Brendon,” he spits. “I thought I’d warn you so you’re not ambushed at your signing like I was. But you seem to have everything under control, don’t you? You’re sick, your voice sounds like shit, you’re working at a Smoothie Hut and living in a hovel instead of asking your bandmates to chip in and you don’t fucking listen! But you’ve got it all under control, don’t you?”

“Patrick I—”

Patrick holds up a hand. Tough love is easiest when you’re angry, and Patrick wants to hold on to his frustration and fury. “Save it,” he says, digging his keys from his pocket. “I’d tell you to go on vocal rest and see a doctor, but I know you won’t do that, so the shower thing twice a day should help with the cough, throat coat should keep you from tasting blood when you sing.”

Brendon just nods and Patrick knows better than to wait for a thank you, so he leaves, stumbling down Brendon’s eight flights of stairs with a rock in his stomach that feels suspiciously like failure. 


End file.
